legs and locomotion
by damn expensive eggs
Summary: Tweek obsesses over the petty details of life. Craig just wants to wear toe socks.


He doesn't stop clicking the pen.

_Click, click, click_, over and over again, like he's running in the pen-clicking marathon and he's damn well _winning. _His thumb gains speed by the second, and his right leg is jittering at forty miles an hour like that's the only part of his body the coffee affects. And just as he knows he's going to win this race with himself, cross the finish line and win the gold, feel comfortable that he's been clicking the pen for _exactly_ sixty seconds, that is when the therapist calls him in.

"I - I'm sorry!" He stammers at her loudly, "I need another minute." And he really does need precisely one more minute.

The lady nods and Tweek begins mentally timing himself again.

When he finishes his race, he pockets the pen and goes into the room only to begin explaining himself and knocking over a tissue box with his elbow in the process.

"Sorry!" He picks it up and aligns it on the table at a right angle, just millimeters from touching the base of the lamp. "You see, I have this thing where if I start clicking the pen, I have to finish it and that takes sixty seconds of my time."

"I see," she says. She clicks her own pen and Tweek cracks his fingers at the noise.

He doesn't sit down until he's offered to.

He eyes every detail of the room and contemplates about perfecting it as the lady asks him, twice, how he is.

Tweek finally gets the message and raises his eyebrows thoughtfully. "Oh! I'm peachy, how're you?" He says it in a tone in which the sarcasm is transparent - it may or may not be there, but there wasn't a positive way to tell.

"Fine," she responds blankly. Tweek nods in agreement, _yes, of course, fine is good. _"Did you finish everything on your to-do list last week?"

"Not exactly!" he admits. He sits with his long legs open, and he slouches naturally, though he's thankful that he does because he feels he may hit his head on a light, whether or not said light was at a low clearance. "I spent a lot of time actually making the list. I used those, you know," he makes pinching motions at the air, "extra sticky-sticky notes. So I put them on the wall in the living room and I had to..." More indecipherable gesticulations. "... Array them. Four by four, the columns were pink, orange, yellow and green, in that order." He lowers his hands. "They're very nice colors."

"Yes."

"And I was arranging the sticky notes first, without writing on them, so when I came up with something to put on them, I would just lean against the wall and write it right there! But I was like tracing the texture of the wall so my writing came out all wobbly and I _could not stand it_, so I had to throw out each note until I got it right, but then Craig - you know Craig, right?"

"Yes, you've talked about Craig lots of times."

"Craig, my b -" _Stop, think! _"My boything. He lives with me."

"I know."

"I know you know, I was just making sure. So, Craig, he had this brilliant idea, and you know, these things just sort of slip my mind sometimes - common sense, _duh!"_ He bonks himself lightly in the head. "Why don't I write them on the table first, and _then_ put it on the wall? It was genius. So that was just what I did, and it took a while, like I said, but the list came out beautiful and suddenly everything was clear."

"That's good."

Tweek nods ecstatically. "Yes! It was good. But when I finished the list, it was eleven thirty-seven. The first thing on my list was clear but you know I have to start at a sharp hour."

"You had to wait until noon?"

"I had to wait until noon exactly."

"Mhm. And what was the first thing on your list?"

"Just to smoke. I didn't have to put it on the list because I do it every day without trying but I had to get everything down, right? And - and I can't recall. Did I ever tell you about that thing I do?"

"You do a lot of things."

"I _do _do a lot of things, God, it's overwhelming but this thing, it helps, sort of. Like, when I have a fresh pack of cigarettes I have to take the second cig from the top left row and turn it over and smoke it last. It's the lucky one."

"You never did tell me that."

"Well, now you know! And last week I was on _that_ cigarette. It's my favorite one."

"May I ask why?"

"I think it's because whenever I got a new pack of sixteen Crayola crayons, the first color I'd always use was blue which was in the top row, second from the left. It's my favorite color, but it was like an... off-blue. It was off. To the left."

The lady nods again and Tweek twiddles his fingers. His fingers are limber and bony - every line and joint are prominent - and they move like lithe spiders when he types, cooks, and intricately arranges his collection of small porcelain giraffes.

Craig isn't the biggest fan of giraffes, and neither is Elizabeth. Elizabeth is their cat. More so Tweek's, but Craig is a pet-appreciative guy just as much as Tweek is. It's just that Elizabeth favors Tweek's presence more than Craig's and Craig doesn't know how to feel about that. Just the _giraffes - _if they're in Elizabeth's field of view, she claws at the shelves and meows like it's nobody's business. Because of this, Tweek puts the giraffes on top of the bookcase, where Elizabeth couldn't reach if she were wearing trampolines for shoes (the bookcase is high and Elizabeth is at below average agility for a cat. "She's fat," Tweek tells the therapist).

Tweek simply loves giraffes. There are a major heap of reasons for this irrational love - he gets into this tangent with his therapist.

"My first stuffed animal was a giraffe, of course," Tweek says. "It was bright yellow and had only nine spots. I believe my mother made it out of felt. And, like, likelikelike..." He stumbles over his words. "... I really like their necks. Their entire physique. They're very beautiful. They're not birds but they're kind of graceful like birds, they don't make much noise and they're never portrayed as an evil animal, they stand tall above the world and eat leaves off trees and they're so relaxed and I wish I could be that way." He looks at her and hopes she understands, but he knows she doesn't have to understand, she just has to listen. "Toys 'R' Us also had a giraffe as their mascot and whenever my parents took me there I... knew I would walk out happy, with some small toy or a new box of pretty crayons. I fed one at a zoo once. I don't normally like zoos. But I was at one this one time and I fed a giraffe a little carrot and he leaned down like a million feet to reach my hand and he just ate it. Their tongues are purple and I, I - I think that's cool!"

He stops, takes a breath, and falls back on the couch. Suddenly, he doesn't feel like talking anymore so he sits in a comfortable silence, waiting, hoping for the therapist to change the subject.

"You said you were on your lucky cigarette?" she brings up.

"Oh, yes, yes, yes - yes! Ah, my lucky cigarette. I was on it. Well, I wasn't. Because when I opened the box, it wasn't flipped over on the opposite side like it was supposed to be, so, like, like, I _flipped_, man!" He jumps in his seat. "And then Craig came out to the balcony because he wanted a smoke too but _he_ was out."

* * *

><p>"You got an extra?" Craig had asked.<p>

Tweek was gazing into the cigarette pack like it was going to speak to him and reassure him that this was the right cigarette. "No!" Tweek cried.

"Lucky one, huh," said Craig.

"NO!" Tweek threw an arm in the air and shoved the box in Craig's face. "LOOK AT THIS! The butt is facing downwards!"

"So."

"SO, I must have forgotten to turn it over! It's not good anymore! Here, you take it!"

Craig smirked at this. He lit the cigarette and Tweek leaned over the railing of the balcony, picking at his cuticles.

It was a cloudy day, the thirteenth one in a row. Tweek didn't like the number thirteen for the same reason anyone else wouldn't like it. He didn't get to smoke his lucky cigarette, and it was from here that he noticed his bad luck was already starting. He turned to Craig melodramatically and cried, "Can you get me a new pack?"

"Why can't you get it."

"Because it's not on the to-do list!"

"Just because it's not on the list, doesn't mean -"

"_Yes_, it does, because have you seen that list? I can't _mess_ with it now, man!"

Craig puffed a cloud of smoke and succumbed. "Fine."

* * *

><p>"So I had to wait until exactly one o'clock to smoke the first cigarette," Tweek concludes. "It wasn't very fun."<p>

"And what was the next thing on your list?"

"To take a shower," Tweek says. "And Craig left the shower curtain closed _again._"

* * *

><p>And Tweek was tired of being afraid of closed shower curtains. Before moving in with Craig, he regularly threw a hard punch at the curtain to make sure no one was there. If someone did happen to be there, he probably was asking for a fight by throwing the first punch. If he just peeked humbly from the corner, he was sure he'd get shanked in the face with a machete.<p>

"Craig!" Tweek called. "You left it closed again."

Craig shuffled into the bathroom and opened the curtain, presenting a clean and safe haven for showering. Tweek hugged him, and Craig patted him lightly, telling him to shower quick because he was "kinda stanky."

* * *

><p>"And, um..." Tweek articulates, "showering went well. I like to shower."<p>

What he means by liking to shower is that primarily, he enjoys cleaning himself. Cleanliness is a virtue and it is almost what he lives for - cleaning the house is a nervous tic. Especially the kitchen. Secondly, he means that it went exceptionally well because, somewhere along his lengthy shower session, Craig joined him. He was uninvited which resulted in Tweek nearly smacking Craig across the face with a handful of foaming shampoo. He'd screamed, "BLOODY MURDER!" but tranquilized when Craig did his sort-of smile and proceeded to lather Tweek and do other things to him that he would never leave the comfort of their bathroom.

These things linger in his mind as he sits in another silence with the therapist.

"Is there anything else on the list you would like to talk about?" she asks.

Tweek's response is delayed. "What? Oh! Yeah, I guess. On Sunday, Craig and I went suit shopping."

"Suits?"

"Yeah. We have a wedding to go to."

* * *

><p>Contrary to popular belief, Tweek <em>did<em> eventually learn how to button his shirt correctly. He didn't need help anymore, but he had to be extra careful every time he did. Craig sometimes peeked over to make sure he was doing it right, but Tweek never failed.

He wasn't very good at tying neckties, though, nor bowties.

"Why do we _both _have to wear bowties?" Tweek prodded.

Craig was struggling to tie Tweek's bowtie - it was beyond a complicated process; it was an art. "We are dapper gentlemen."

"'Dapper' is the last word I would use to describe you."

"Is this just because you don't want to tie the bowtie." Craig looped a wrong loop. _Fuck. _"We can get you one of those clippy ones."

"I prefer... regular ties!" Tweek exclaimed. He looked down at his shoeless feet, obstructing Craig's access to the bowtie.

"Goddammit, stay still -"

"You're wearing mismatched socks!"

"I am."

"Take them off!" He pointed an accusing finger at them. One was yellow with blue stripes (or blue with yellow stripes?) and the other was a starry toe sock. "You do not even have to wear toe socks! You're wearing LOAFERS!"

"I like toe socks." Craig wiggled his toes. "They're gloves for my feet. They keep me warm but I don't sacrifice the dexterity of my toes."

"WHAT THE HELL DO YOU NEED YOUR TOES FOR?"

"To tie bowties, of course."

"_AAAAAAHHHHHH!_"

* * *

><p>"Needless to say, I bought him new socks that day," Tweek says. "It's apparent I can't stand mismatched socks, but it was especially unacceptable because one of them was a <em>toe <em>sock and I could not have that."

"How does Craig feel about your habits?"

Tweek's thin lips stretch into a smile. "I think he finds them endearing but he never shows it. More often than not, he adds gas to my fire and he finds it entertaining. It's funny, though. Whenever Clyde says he's worried about something, Craig tells him to suck it up and take it like a man! Which I know I should do, but Craig never tells me to!"

"And who's Clyde?"

"Clyde is our friend. More like Craig's friend. He's the one who's getting married." Tweek contemplates how to describe Clyde, but decides not to say anything because he could only think negatively. _He's the kind of guy that sticks chopsticks up his nose and calls himself a walrus._ "... I don't know why Craig thinks it's cute when I worry about something, but it's annoying when Clyde worries."

"Well, it's because you two are together, is it not?"

"But then why isn't HE together with Clyde?"

"Clyde is engaged?"

"So if he WASN'T engaged, he and Craig would be a thing?"

"No. As far as I'm concerned, it seems to me Craig loves you. You've mentioned that he finds these habits of yours endearing. Clyde is a completely different person."

Tweek's right leg starts shaking at an even faster pace. No one ever told him before that Craig loves him. It's like the sound of a gunshot to the ears and a kick in the chest. It wakes him up not like a pestering alarm, but like a kiss on the cheek. He folds his hands in his lap and lets the thought sit.

"Yeah," is all he says.

The therapist glances at her paper. "How is your writing coming along?"

Tweek heaves a sigh. "I haven't got any motivation."

* * *

><p>"If you couldn't handle the critique, then why did you ask me?"<p>

Tweek dropped his head into his hands to let out a silent scream. "I was confident so I was expecting praise!"

Craig threw his hands in the air. "If you were so _confident, _again, why did you _ask_ me?"

"Because I _need_ your approval!"

"My opinion shouldn't matter, it's _your _writing."

"YOU'RE BATSHIT IF YOU THINK I DON'T CARE ABOUT YOUR OPINION!" Tweek was screaming and this caused Elizabeth to skitter beneath the desk. Craig looked down at her. She was sitting comfortably, like she was watching a show. At this point, she really was.

"If you care about my opinion so much, why don't you take my advice into account."

"Because I think you're wrong," spouted Tweek.

"Well, hot diggity damn, excuse me for being _honest._"

"I'm not on your ass for honesty, I just disagree with you!"

"Unfortunately, you're not on my ass at all right now." Craig said this with a straight face, holding his backside.

Tweek sneered. "Come here."

Craig threw Tweek over the desk, not even conscious of the damage he was doing to Tweek's obsessive, color-coded organizations. The chicken-scratched looseleaf paper fluttered about as the two of them occupied the entire space, ravishing one another in hasty kisses.

It was a sloppy performance of quick undressing, smothering and, "wait, wait, wait, let me take off my socks," and, "remember to pick them up when we're d -"

There was no time for finishing sentences, just time for each other.

And Tweek had no problem color coding his desk display all over again.

* * *

><p>Tweek doesn't include the final part, but the focus of the writing was more important. "I haven't written for the entire week," he explains. "I've been stuck at the same spot he and I argued about."<p>

"I'm sure you'll find your inspiration soon, Tweek."

Tweek nods. "Yeah."

She shoots the clock a look. "While we still have time, you said you didn't finish everything on your list. What have you got left to do?"

"Well, coming here was the second to last thing on the list. So I'm almost done. The last thing..." He tightens up in his spot, feeling smaller. He gets a stupid, teenage-girl-feeling in his stomach thinking about it. He bites his lip. "I don't usually talk about it with Craig but I mean I've been meaning to bring it up and, um, like, he - he saw it on the sticky note on the wall so it's not like he's oblivious or anything but it's just, like, I don't know if he's... well, he never said he was in favor and he never said he was opposing of the idea of sort of, kind of maybe finding a place somewhere where we can get married! Do you know how hard it is to find a place where we can get married, I mean, where are we going to go, Canada? Who goes to Canada anymore! Well, I've always sort of liked Canada, but Craig's doesn't so I think it's out of the question, but, like, yeah! Yeah! I just, we can't really have a... _nor_mal pro_po_sal, with this sort of relationship, but I mean, we can pretend, right? I also don't think we need rings, I mean, that's expensive and moving and having a wedding is costly enough as it is, for all I care we can have plastic pumpkin rings, I just - just - just really want the legal rights and to be bound to this man forever, okay!"

He's shaking, face red and stomach burning like he's going to throw up and cry and scream all at once. The therapist sees this and feels his heated emotion, and gives him a sympathetic pat on the shoulder. Tweek looks at his lap and doesn't acknowledge the gesture. He's stuck in his box and the top is open, releasing the caged conflicts and anxious mantras. A shiver sprints down his spine as he quietly asks, "Can I go?"

The therapist nods and he's dismissed. He shuffles out into the cold winter dusk, clutching himself in his shuddering shell.

He feels a sudden wave of warmth permeate from his right. He's still looking down at the sidewalk, but he knows who it is.

They link hands on the way home. Tweek notices that Craig's hat strings aren't aligned perpendicularly, but instead of reaching out to fix it, he decides to keep it to himself, just this once.


End file.
